


all i see are tomorrows

by zozo



Series: Two Faced Twin [3]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Villanelle works for MI6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-10 09:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18657748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zozo/pseuds/zozo
Summary: The first sunny day in a month,Eve thinks,and it has to be when I’m hung over.





	1. Please Drink Responsibly

Eve winces as the sun peeks out from behind Vauxhall Bridge like a golden railroad spike and stabs her directly in the brain. _The first sunny day in a month,_ she thinks, _and it has to be when I’m hung over._

Niko moved out yesterday. Eve came home and most of his stuff was already packed. When she realized that he meant it, that this wasn’t a bluff or a joke or a desperate plea to be taken seriously—when she realized that he was far, far beyond all of that—an avalanche of emotions came crashing down on her. Sadness, helplessness, frustration, spite.

And the worst one of all, sitting on top of the pile: relief. It was the relief that disturbed her enough to go to bed with an entire bottle of red wine, and now the bottle of red wine is having its revenge.

If all of that weren’t bad enough, the first person Eve sees when she enters the office is Villanelle. The ex-assassin is wearing a severe royal purple pantsuit and looming over Hugo, studying something on his desk; Hugo himself looks equal parts terrified and turned on by her proximity.

Eve considers rescuing Villanelle before Hugo says something that will get his neck snapped—and then reconsiders, heading for the coffee machine instead with a shrug.

* * *

Villanelle has learned, after some time working with Eve, that approaching her before her morning coffee is a terrible idea. Uncaffeinated, Eve will go out of her way to push back against everything Villanelle says or does. Villanelle admires that kind of contrarianism in the abstract, but when it’s directed at her—not so much.

So she waits. She notices Eve come in, but doesn’t pause in her intimidation of Hugo. She lets Eve fix herself a coffee in the biggest mug in the kitchen, lets Eve finish her greasy breakfast sandwich over the sink, lets her get almost, but not quite, settled in.

Then she swoops in out of nowhere and perches on the corner of Eve’s desk, smiling wickedly. “Good morning, Eve,” she purrs. “You look like shit.”

Eve glares at her. “Not today.”

Villanelle steals a glance at Eve’s giant mug. It’s mostly empty. She may have miscalculated the shittiness of Eve’s mood if she’s still so grouchy after that much coffee.

Oh well. There’s work to be done.

She tones down the flirtiness in her voice (but only by half) and hands Eve the briefing packet she’d been going over with Hugo. “There’s been another death related to the Peels. The CEO of a data analytics company. We’re going to Prague.”

* * *

Their hotel room—singular—is considerably less pink than the honeymoon suite from their last mission. Eve would thank Carolyn for booking it in advance this time, robbing Villanelle of an opportunity for mischief, but the fact that Carolyn booked them a single room? Eve can’t imagine what was going through her head.

“Hmm,” says Villanelle, tossing her suitcase on one of the room’s double beds and unzipping it. “Not enough mirrors.”

Eve rolls her eyes so hard they ache.

Villanelle sighs theatrically. “Okay, Eve. Did I do something to piss you off?”

“What?” Eve has been so entrenched in her funk about Niko that it hasn’t occurred to her it might be externally visible. She hasn’t really been walking around being a bitch to everyone for two days—has she?

Villanelle waves her hands in Eve’s direction, apparently gesturing to her whole… situation. “You are being… prickly,” she says, with more diplomacy than Eve thought Villanelle knew how to use.

“Moreso than usual,” she adds, less diplomatically.

But she’s not wrong. It’s Eve’s turn to sigh a dramatic sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.”

“Okay,” says Villanelle. Eve expects her to ask what it _is_ , then, but Villanelle seems satisfied with Eve’s half-assed apology and continues unpacking her clothes into the room’s drawers and closets. _Because of course she’s too fancy to live out of a suitcase like the rest of us,_ Eve thinks.

She sits down on the end of the other bed and checks her phone. No messages; no surprise. She screws her eyes shut against a sudden wave of grief for her marriage. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been _hers_ for nearly 20 years, and now it’s over. And as sure as she is that this is the right path—for both of them—trying to accept the reality of it feels like she’s choking down shards of broken glass.

Eyes still closed, she feels the mattress dip, the warmth of Villanelle’s thigh pressing against the side of hers. Eve expects her to say something, but Villanelle just… sits. Eve opens her eyes. Villanelle is looking at her, a tiny crease between her perfect eyebrows, hands clasped awkwardly in her lap.

Eve feels a pang of guilt. She sighs again. “Niko left,” she says. “Left me. Sunday night. I don’t… I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Oh,” Villanelle says, and that’s all she says.

After a minute, Eve closes her eyes again and carefully rests her head on Villanelle’s shoulder. They sit that way for a while.

“Thank you,” Eve says eventually, “for not making a joke about it.”

Eve can feel Villanelle shrug her other shoulder. “Maybe I’m tired of you calling me an asshole all the time.”

Eve smiles, despite everything, and nuzzles her head absently into the side of Villanelle’s neck.

* * *

The dead CEO looks like a dead end. By the time Eve and Villanelle arrive in Prague, the PČR have caught the hit-and-run driver—a local man with a history of DUI arrests—and traffic cam footage seems to show the unglamorous truth: late night, wet streets, bad luck.

Eve doesn’t bother to keep the disappointment out of her voice when she tells Carolyn. She hates that Aaron Peel, shitbag extraordinaire, might have been right even once—that sometimes people just die. She doesn’t bother hiding that from Carolyn, either.

“Quite so,” Carolyn says agreeably. “I want you two to stay in Prague through the weekend and keep digging.” There’s an awkward pause on the line. “I, ah, hope that won’t cause any problems with Niko.”

“No,” says Eve. “No more problems with Niko.”

“Ah. I see,” says Carolyn. “So it goes, eh? _Na shledanou,_ Eve.”

Eve sighs. “Bye, Carolyn.” She hangs up the phone.

Villanelle, who had been fixing her hair in the room’s one and only full-length mirror, comes over and takes Eve’s hands. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get dinner. I know this fusion place with a tasting menu to die for.”

* * *

Seven—count ’em, seven—courses of rich Czech and Czech-adjacent food later, not to mention a pitcher of beer, and Eve is just about ready to be rolled back to the hotel.

She lolls her head against Villanelle, drunk and sated, as they walk through the cool night streets. Villanelle had turned her nose up at the beer, but had a small glass of fruit brandy with dessert. Eve can still smell it, sweet and boozy, on her breath.

“Prague is great,” Eve blurts suddenly, slipping her arm into Villanelle’s. “We should move here.”

Villanelle hums, pretending to think about it. “Decent Metro system. Not much sunshine in the winter, though. And—” as though she’s suddenly remembered, “oh shit, isn’t MI6 in London? Our job?”

“Meh!” Eve says loudly. “We can telecommute.”

“Telecommute,” Villanelle laughs. “To catch spies and killers.”

Eve forms a pistol with her free hand and “aims” down the line of her finger. She crooks her thumb and makes a cartoon gunshot sound. “You can do all kinds of things over Skype these days.”

“Ooooh, do tell…”

* * *

The closer they get to their hotel, the more and more of Eve’s weight shifts to Villanelle. By the time they’re in the elevator, Villanelle is practically carrying her. By the time they get to their room, there’s no “practically” about it.

It takes an above-average level of flexibility to get her key out without dropping Eve entirely, but she manages it, and drags them both inside.

She thinks about undressing Eve, but that seems like an awful lot of work, so she just kicks the bedspread back with her toe and dumps Eve onto the bed. After a moment’s thought, she does take Eve’s shoes off, and sets them by the door. Then she pulls the covers over Eve.

Villanelle has never really tucked someone into bed before. It’s a strange feeling, like Eve is something precious and secret that Villanelle needs to secure. It doesn’t help that Eve looks younger when she’s asleep, face slack, brow smoothed out. Villanelle feels the urge to kiss her on the forehead, and sees no reason to resist.

She changes into a set of men’s silk pajamas, washes her face, brushes her hair, cleans her teeth. She checks on Eve, who’s still dead to the world, then crawls into the other bed and slips easily into a dreamless sleep.

When she wakes up to a soft noise, her internal clock tells her it’s only a few hours later. She lies as still as she can, mentally cataloguing every weapon in the room and its location. Eve is between her and the door—less than optimal. Her ears, straining for another sound, finally hear it: it’s Eve, whispering.

“Oksana?” she says again. Her voice is unsteady, like she’s trying not to cry.

Villanelle waits a beat, then says “Yeah?” into the dark.

“Can you… can you come here? I… I don’t want to sleep alone.”

It’s an offer Villanelle can’t refuse. She slides out of her bed and into Eve’s almost immediately, prompting a surprised “oh!” from the other woman. Villanelle wraps her arms around Eve’s waist from behind and pulls her close.

“Like this?” she asks, burying her face in Eve’s hair.

Eve snuggles back into her. “Exactly like this. Thank you.”

But Villanelle has already fallen back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! This installment has more ~feelings~, but don't worry—things will heat up in later chapters. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	2. Better Than Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the content of this chapter, this fic has been re-rated Explicit. Enjoy. ;)

Eve wakes up in Villanelle’s arms.

And nearly bursts into tears.

There’s no mistaking them for Niko’s arms. Villanelle’s are less bony, and only lightly fuzzed with blonde hair. There’s no mistaking the body attached to them, either, soft and strong and warm behind her.

For one furious second, Eve hates how much she prefers this—the way it feels, the way _she_ feels—and for that second it turns sour and toxic, she feels like a traitor, she feels like a monster, she feels like she’s falling down an elevator shaft.

But then Villanelle murmurs incoherently, and squeezes Eve a little tighter, and Eve clears her mind of everything except the present moment. She tries to sync her breathing with Villanelle’s, and eventually she falls back asleep.

* * *

They get up together, a few hours later. Brush their teeth together, make faces in the mirror at each other, try not to laugh toothpaste all over the sink.

And they get dressed together. Eve disrobes casually, unselfconsciously, and when she catches Villanelle’s gaze lingering, she smiles and just… takes her time.

It’s driving Villanelle crazy, but they have an appointment in an hour. She’s wearing a suit today, partly because she wants to look like a real secret agent, but mostly because she knows how good she looks in a suit.

Eve comes up and makes a big fuss of brushing non-existent fluff off of Villanelle’s shoulders and adjusting her tie. It’s transparent flirtation, and Villanelle basks in it.

_Hey,_ she wants to say, _remember when you ate me out on your desk? When are you going to do that again? Can we do it in a bed next time? And is it going to be before or after I get to go down on you?_ But Eve has been in a Mood since that mustache left and took her pointless husband with it, and Villanelle thinks a little more subtlety might be required if she wants—

Eve cuts off her train of thought by leaning up on her toes and pressing a soft, minty kiss to Villanelle’s lips. “You look good,” she says quietly, while Villanelle’s brain scrambles to recover.

“I know,” she manages to preen, not missing a beat.

Eve laughs and rolls her eyes. “Let’s go, hotshot.”

* * *

The newly-installed CEO of the company is friendly and helpful, but he doesn’t know anything of use. His predecessor didn’t have any prominent enemies on the Board, and there are no plans to sell the company in the future, or indeed change it in any way. “‘Steady as she goes,’” the translator offers as an equivalent idiom.

“All right,” says Eve. “Thank you for your time. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Oh,” says the new CEO, “I didn’t know him. They brought me in yesterday from the Plzeň office.”

* * *

It’s the kind of washout that deserves ice cream, Villanelle decides. Eve is immediately on board.

They find a trendy dessert place with a wild assortment of ice cream flavours. Villanelle gets a double scoop of Thai chili–lime sorbet, and Eve orders a cup of peach/plum/rum soft serve. They sit at a small table outside the shop and people-watch for a while, Villanelle offering a running fashion commentary on the parade of tourists flowing to and from Wenceslas Square that has Eve cracking up into her dish.

Villanelle pauses in her savage takedown of a 10-year-old’s “colour story” and gets a look in her eyes, looking at Eve. Suddenly she reaches across the table.

“You’ve got…” she starts, and very slowly thumbs a stray drop of ice cream from the corner of Eve’s mouth.

Eve’s heart starts to jackhammer. It’s the hardest thing in the world not to catch that thumb between her lips, between her teeth. She remembers Villanelle’s fingers in her mouth, tasting not of ice cream but—

“Hey,” Villanelle says in a low voice. “Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

Eve does. She really, really does.

* * *

They leave a trail of clothes starting at the door: their shoes, slacks, Villanelle’s jacket, Eve’s blouse and bra.

“Eve,” Villanelle gasps between kisses, “I feel like you are giving me mixed messages.”

Eve stops unbuttoning Villanelle’s dress shirt. “I thought I was being pretty straightforward taking your pants off just now.”

“Okay, yes, but—”

The penny drops. “This is about Niko,” Eve says.

Villanelle cringes. “It is, a little.”

Eve cocks her head. “How? I’m here, with you. I don’t even know where Niko _is_ tonight.” That digs a little at her heart, but she leaves it. “This is about us, Villanelle. You and me. It always has been.” She undoes the last few buttons of Villanelle’s shirt and slips her hand inside, gently cupping her breast, not-so-gently tweaking her nipple through the fabric of her bra.

Villanelle sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth. She nods at Eve, and clasps a hand over the hand under her shirt, pulling Eve back towards the bed.

“Show me,” she says, voice low. “Show me I’m yours.” Eve lunges forward and kisses her, knocking Villanelle back onto the bed and following her down.

They shed their remaining clothes as they make out, Villanelle gasping and moaning into Eve’s mouth. She gets Eve’s thigh between her legs and starts rubbing herself against it. Eve can feel how wet she is. She can _smell_ how wet she is. She pulls slowly away from the kiss, nipping at Villanelle’s lower lip with her teeth.

“Eve,” Villanelle practically whines, “sit on my face, please. Please. I need you in my mouth, Eve, please.”

Eve hesitates. Villanelle notices. She sits up and touches Eve’s elbow. “Um, we don’t have to if you don’t want to. I can sit on _your_ face?”

Eve laughs and shakes her head. “I just… I’m not the biggest fan of being… literally on top. I get self-conscious.”

“Oh. I understand. Come here and kiss me.” While Eve is obeying, Villanelle reaches over and turns off the lights. The room becomes a tapestry of shadows.

“Is that better? I happen to think you are beautiful, but I want you to be comfortable before I blow your mind with my tongue. Also, if it helps, I will be concentrating on what I am doing, so my eyes will mostly be closed.”

Eve laughs again. She does feel more comfortable, and strangely touched by Villanelle’s attention. “Oh my god, you maniac,” she says. “This is just going to feed your ego, which is already unmanageable.”

Villanelle stacks an extra pillow under her neck and lies back down. “All I heard you say was ‘feed.’ Are you going to feed me, Eve?” She smacks her lips.

“Oh god, don’t make me regret this,” Eve says, but she’s already swinging her leg over Villanelle’s head and grasping the headboard experimentally. “Are you sure you—oh, _fuck_.” Villanelle’s arms encircle her legs, gripping her thighs overhand, and she slowly but firmly pushes her tongue up inside Eve.

It’s _surprisingly_ long. “Ok _sa_ na,” Eve gasps, bracing her forehead against her bicep as she grinds down onto Villanelle’s face, self-consciousness the furthest thing from her mind.

Villanelle responds by moaning up into Eve’s pussy. The vibrations are exquisite. She falls into a rhythm: fucking Eve with her tongue, then licking quick circles around her clit until Eve’s almost at the edge, then slipping her tongue back inside.

Eve is convulsing, hanging on to the headboard for dear life, hurtling inevitably towards the biggest orgasm she’s ever had. Villanelle is relentless, with her grip on Eve’s legs, with her mouth, with the low vibrations of her hums and moans. When Eve comes, her ears pop like she’s in an airplane or a fast-moving elevator, and her whole body feels fresh, and new, and light, and pure, and alive.


	3. Cold Water

It takes a few minutes to Eve to recover from sitting on Villanelle’s face. She rolls off and collapses upside-down next to her, head level with Villanelle’s kneecaps, breathing too hard to speak. Finally she works her way back up to Villanelle’s lips, kissing her eagerly, tasting herself all over her girlfriend’s mouth.

 _This is your life now,_ says a Polish-accented voice in her head, without judgment. _This is what you’ve been after all along. And now it’s yours._

Eve sits with that thought for a minute as she rests her head on Villanelle’s chest. She decides she can live with it.

“Hey,” she says, voice still ragged. “You, um, you said you’d sit on my face too?”

Villanelle’s mouth falls open a little. “Yes. Absolutely. Did you mean now? We can do that now.” Eve kisses her again, and then again, laughing.

“Let me get a glass of water first. Do you want one?”

“Yes, please.”

For a psychopathic serial killer, Eve reflects, Villanelle sure has excellent manners.

She pads to the bathroom and returns with two plastic cups of cold water. Villanelle tosses back hers in a single gulp, her eagerness obvious even in the dark that hides Eve’s blush. She’s already up on her knees, legs ready for Eve to lie down between them.

Eve doesn’t tease Villanelle by taking her time with the water. She’s impatient too. In fact, she’s been craving this since the last time—the first time—on her desk at MI6, in the middle of the night after their first mission. It feels like every dream she has lately is either a guilt dream about Niko or a sex dream about tasting Villanelle—and those are _de facto_ guilt dreams too, she supposes.

She pushes those thoughts away as she lies down on the bed and slides under Villanelle, trying not to feel like a mechanic rolling under a car. Villanelle’s pussy is inches from Eve’s mouth; she can feel humidity against her lips, feel dark blonde hair tickling the end of her nose. And the smell—Eve could live and die here, between Villanelle’s legs, and it would be utterly fine.

Eve puts her hands on Villanelle’s hips and gently moves her to a more accessible angle—then pulls her down onto Eve’s wet, waiting mouth.

“Nnnnnngggg,” says Villanelle, and then “ _fuck me_ ” in Russian, six or seven times, and then something that doesn’t have any discernible letters in it at all. She twists and rolls her hips, grabbing at her own nipples. She’s absolutely soaking Eve’s face.

Eve, meanwhile, has one hand on Villanelle’s hip and the other frantically moving between her own legs. She can’t _not_ touch herself; this is the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to her.

“Eve,” gasps Villanelle, “put your fingers inside me too.” Eve is more than happy to obey.

Working the wet heat of Villanelle with one hand and her own pulsing sex with the other feels a little like trying to pat her head while rubbing her stomach, but eventually she gets a rhythm going between both of her hands and her mouth, and Eve feels her next orgasm rising at the same time she feels Villanelle’s thigh muscles start to clench on either side of her head.

Villanelle comes with a stiffening of her entire body. She clenches so hard around Eve’s fingers that Eve isn’t sure she could pull them out, even if she wanted to. She’s not loud this time, but she makes a breathless, high-pitched moan that’s enough to send Eve over the edge, muffling her own orgasm with her lips tight around Villanelle’s clit.

It takes Villanelle a couple of minutes to catch her breath after that. “ _Eve_ ,” she finally says. “Can I turn on the lights? I want to look at you.”

“Yes, baby, of course you can.”

Eve knows she’s sweated or smeared off what little makeup she’d been wearing, she knows her hair is an absolute disaster, she knows the way she’s lying makes her stomach look weird. But Villanelle is still all she can smell, all she can taste, and Villanelle knows what women look like. What Eve looks like. It’s a little bit of a surprise how fine it is.

When the lights come on and she sees the look Villanelle is giving her disastrous hair and her weird-looking stomach, she feels even better than fine. Villanelle looks like she’s witnessing something holy. It’s taking Eve’s ego into the stratosphere.

Villanelle sighs, sounding purely contented. She reaches for Eve and pulls her into a sensual, closed-mouth kiss, fingers ever-so-gently skimming over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips. Eve melts into it. Villanelle kisses like it’s another language she knows, like she’s trying to communicate something with it, something specific to Eve and extremely important.

* * *

The kiss lasts long enough that Villanelle contemplates asking Eve to fuck her again, but just the thought makes her pussy throb in protest. She chuckles into Eve’s mouth, and Eve leans back, eyebrows raised.

“Something you want to share with the class?”

“Konstantin always said, ‘If MI6 catches you they’re going to fuck you until you can’t walk.’” Villanelle grins. “And here I am.”

“Okay,” Eve groans, “can you not mention Konstantin when we’re… naked? Please?”

Villanelle makes a face. “Good point,” she says, and flops back onto a pillow, smiling a slightly dazed, freshly fucked smile. She feels Eve’s fingers on her knee, tracing a line up her thigh to her midsection.

To her scar.

Eve’s seen it, but she’s never touched it before. And they’ve never talked about it. Eve’s touch is tentative, brushing gently over the raised red scar tissue, and Villanelle suddenly gasps and flinches away.

“Oh god,” Eve cries, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” but she stops, because Villanelle is giggling.

“That tickles,” she says. “You can touch it, just touch a little harder.” She drags a finger, feather-light, down the side of Eve’s face—demonstrating—and Eve shivers.

“Okay,” she whispers, and returns her fingers, with a firmer touch, to Villanelle’s stomach. Villanelle hums happily.

The look on Eve’s face is too complicated for Villanelle to read. Her eyes are on her fingers where they meet Villanelle’s skin. Her mouth is slightly open. She takes a breath like she’s about to say something, and then doesn’t, and then she does it again. Villanelle watches.

Finally, Eve manages to speak. “I… wish I hadn’t stabbed you.”

Villanelle looks down, then back up at Eve’s face.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks. Eve looks frightened, but nods. Villanelle leans very close and whispers right against Eve’s lips. “I kind of liked it.”

She leans back again. Eve’s eyes are wide. “No,” she says, almost reflexively. “No, you’re not—”

“Not what, Eve? Not that fucked up? Actually, kind of, I am.” She says it like it’s a boring matter of fact, but the longer it’s out of her mouth, the heavier it feels. Like the kind of thing she’d say to Anna, right before an argument.

Eve stares. She stares Villanelle in the eyes, she stares at her mouth, she stares at her scar. (She also stares at her tits, but she’s only human.) Then she surprises Villanelle with a kiss for a second time that day.

“In that case,” Eve says, fingers still pressing into the scar. “You’re welcome.”

“Just don’t do it again,” Villanelle says quickly. “I heard you the first time, okay?”

“Okay,” Eve laughs into her hair.

“Promise?”

Eve stops laughing, and the expression on her face turns painfully earnest. “I promise,” she says.

Villanelle kisses her. “I know you’re telling the truth because you’re using your Serious Voice.” She takes Eve’s hand and gently kisses each fingertip. “I prefer… other ways of being penetrated.”

“Mmmm, I’m learning that about you.”

Eve is leaning in for another kiss when both of their phones beep in unison. A moment later, Eve’s starts to ring. She groans and snatches it off the end table.

“Shit,” says Eve, “it’s Kenny.” She puts him on speaker, trying to sound less… naked. “We’re here,” she says into the phone. “What’s up?”

One of Eve’s favourite things about Kenny is the way he (usually) gets straight to the point. This time is no exception. “The drunk driver,” he says, voice tinny as it comes out of Eve’s phone, “just died in jail.”

Eve and Villanelle exchange a glance. “Suspicious circumstances?”

“He hanged himself with shoelaces I’m pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to have in there. I’d call that at least a little suspicious.”

Eve is already up off the bed, phone in one hand, scanning the floor for her panties. “We’ll go check it out.”


	4. Liminal Spaces

The police station where the driver was being held is only a few minutes from the hotel. Eve calls ahead; the sergeant major at the desk is already expecting them.

When they arrive, they’re met by a striking uniformed woman with close-cropped black hair and shrewd green eyes who introduces herself as “ _Poručík_ Kateřina Jelínková. You may call me Lieutenant.” Her English is smooth, less accented than Villanelle’s. Everything she’s wearing is perfectly creased.

As they walk through the station to the cells, Eve tries to assure the lieutenant that there’s no question about the competency of her officers, or the security of their jail—they’re just here to tie up a loose end. Barely related. Nothing to worry about. Just paperwork, really.

The other cells are empty—no witnesses. The door to one stands open, with a constable standing guard next to it. A man and a woman, wearing jumpsuits emblazoned KORONER, are leaning against the opposite wall, looking bored.

They perk up slightly when Jelínková walks in, and the female medical examiner asks her a question in rapid-fire Czech. Jelínková’s answer is curt, and the woman leans back against the wall without another word.

“In here,” the lieutenant says in English, gesturing for Eve and Villanelle to enter the open cell.

And there he is. Skin a mottled blue-grey, eyes and tongue protruding, toes dangling only six or eight inches off the floor. The flesh of his neck bulges so far around the makeshift noose that Eve can’t even see the shoelaces.

There’s no sign of a struggle in the cell—which only has a bed, bolted to the floor, and a metal toilet and sink, similarly immovable, so even if there _had_ been a struggle, Eve muses, there wouldn’t be much sign.

Villanelle is staring thoughtfully into the dead man’s face.

“You don’t know where he got the shoelaces from?” Eve asks the lieutenant.

“No,” Jelínková says. “His were confiscated.”

“Did he seem… what was he like when you brought him in?”

“Pissed drunk. But when he sobered up and remembered what he’d done, he was very— _rozrušený_. What’s the good English word? _Distraught_.” She shakes her head. “This was not his first time drink-driving. It was the first person he’d killed, though.”

Villanelle makes a small noise in the back of her throat, eyes still fixed on the corpse.

Eve takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out in a long sigh. The shoelaces are slightly mysterious, but nothing here is pinging her radar. “Okay. I think we’ve seen enough. Thank you for your time, Lieutenant.”

* * *

It’s a pleasant evening, so they decide to walk back to the hotel.

“Well,” Eve says. “What do you think?”

Villanelle purses her lips. "There is very little evidence of anything at all. But this does not _feel_ like an assassination.

"If the accident were an arrangement, why not kill the driver in the crash? Even I would try to find an easier way than murdering someone in the middle of a police station. And we still don’t have a motive for killing the CEO in the first place.

“I think… two unlucky men. Nothing else here.”

Eve hums, acknowledging her points. She’s still turning the situation over in her head when she feels Villanelle’s hand slip into hers.

Suddenly they’re not two frazzled MI6 agents chasing a red herring; they’re not an ex–desk jockey and an ex-assassin; they’re not navigating a minefield of emotional drama and sexual tension. They’re just girlfriends, walking down a Czech street together, hand in hand.

Eve looks over at Villanelle. Villanelle is already looking at her, smiling, hazel eyes soft as they roam over Eve’s face.

She squeezes Villanelle’s hand. “This is nice,” she says.

Villanelle squeezes back. “It is.”

At the next corner, Villanelle tugs Eve left instead of right. “Let’s walk by the river. I want to see the Charles Bridge.”

Eve lets herself be pulled, gladly. “I didn’t know you were a fan of bridges.”

Villanelle shrugs. “I like… I do not know the word in English. Spaces in between. Airports, bridges, hotel rooms. Places with always lots of people, but no one ever stays for long.”

“Liminal spaces,” says Eve.

“Li-mi-nal,” says Villanelle, trying it out. “Yes.” She squeezes Eve’s hand again. “I like liminal spaces. I like being in liminal spaces with you. Together. Arriving and leaving, together.”

Eve doesn’t know what to say at first. She’s used to Villanelle flirting and teasing, being rude and obnoxious and childish, difficult for the sake of difficulty. This… earnestness, it’s new to Eve. She thinks it’s also new to Villanelle, something she’s trying out. Like a new language, one she’s learning just for Eve.

“I like it too,” Eve says around a sudden lump in her throat. “I like it a lot.”

They turn onto a promenade. Over the railing, city lights sparkle on the Vltava river. Eve notices other couples walking together, hand in hand, arm in arm, and realizes she and Villanelle are completely indistinguishable from any of them.

This is starting to feel like a date. Like more of a date than Eve’s been on since Tony Blair was in office. She feels giddy and light and twenty years younger, MI6 and the Peel Company and the Twelve the furthest things from her mind.

She looks over at Villanelle, intending to steal a kiss, but stops when she sees a tiny furrow in Villanelle’s brow.

“You all right?” she asks instead.

Villanelle stops, still holding Eve’s hand. She looks like she has something to say, something that’s making her feel vulnerable. Eve tries to make her face as neutral and open as possible.

“Eve,” Villanelle begins. “I really like you. I like being your partner at work. I like being your… your girlfriend, after work. I like watching movies with you, _and_ I like catching bad guys with you.”

Eve smiles. “I like it too,” she says, inwardly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I just…” Villanelle huffs in frustration, looking out over the river. There’s real pain in her voice, real stress. She turns to look at Eve, face pinched.

“I can’t give you a normal life, you know.”

Eve just stares. She can’t help it—she bursts out laughing. Villanelle looks shocked and offended, which makes Eve laugh even harder. She’s still holding Villanelle’s hand, and she gives it what she hopes is a reassuring squeeze as she tries to catch her breath.

“Jesus, Eve,” says Villanelle, petulant. “What the fuck?”

Eve gets herself under control. “Oksana,” she says, "haven’t you been paying attention? I don’t _want_ a normal life. I want _this_. I want _you_.

"I spent so many years—wanting more. More than… than what I had. At work, at—at home. But I didn’t know how to get it, I didn’t know what it was, I didn’t even know if it was _out there_ for me to get. And then…

“Then I met you.”

Eve thinks she sees a flush of colour rise in Villanelle’s cheeks, but it could just be the lights along the river. Villanelle takes Eve’s other hand too, looking down at where they’re clasped together, then back up to Eve’s face.

“Oh,” says Villanelle.

Eve reaches up and kisses her on the tip of the nose. “Fuck normal,” she says.

Villanelle scrunches up her face happily. “Yeah,” she says. “Fuck it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know anything about Prague or the Czech Republic, you can probably tell that I don't. Apologies to actual Czech people. <3


	5. Keeping Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter discusses, in non-explicit terms, a past sexual relationship between an adult (Anna) and a minor (Villanelle).

This is starting to feel like the most complicated mission Villanelle’s ever been on.

Not Prague. Prague is even simpler than their last mission. Prague has been basically a vacation. Villanelle has eaten many delicious desserts, even though she would prefer to vacation somewhere with warmer nights.

No, her current mission is far more complex, and the stakes are much higher than a dead CEO or whatever’s happening around the Peel Company. Failure of this mission, at any level, would be simply catastrophic.

Because her current mission is Eve.

* * *

The objective, at least, is simple: keep her.

Villanelle has lost very few people in her life, very few things at all, that she couldn’t stand to lose. The first one that comes to mind is a Balenciaga scarf she lost on the Métro in 2017. That one still stings. The second is her old flat in Paris, the one she abandoned when she betrayed the Twelve. She still dreams about that flat sometimes, the high ceilings, the huge windows, the view.

The third is Anna.

Villanelle is a forward-looking kind of woman. Dwelling on the past is for people who feel regret. But in this case, the mission requires it.

The… situation… with Anna went sideways very quickly. She ponders for the first time the possibility that she and Anna may have been doomed from the start. The romanticism of it is delicious: the idea that no matter what Villanelle had done, things were always going to turn out the same way. Something that a lesser person might have called guilt grows wings and flies out of her heart, free.

Even so, she thinks, there must be something she can apply to the task at hand. She’s not going to forget Eve on a Line 6 train. She’s not going to have to watch Eve get stuffed into a van by cleaners. (Actually, the chance of that happening is greater than zero, but it’s also an outcome Villanelle feels reasonably confident she could prevent.) Maybe there’s something about the way things went wrong with Anna that will help them work out better this time.

Anna had a husband. That was a big one. And getting rid of him didn’t turn out the way Villanelle had hoped—Anna screamed and cried and called her names and it didn’t bring her closer to Villanelle at all. Just the opposite, in fact.

Eve has a husband, too. But perhaps not for much longer? If he leaves on his own, then Eve will only be angry with him, and Villanelle will be off the hook. She has been watching him from time to time at his school: he is very close with a mousy woman who laughs much too loudly at his math-related jokes. When the teachers are socializing among themselves, Niko and this woman are always off to the side, together.

So this one might work itself out, Villanelle thinks.

But the husband is far from the only issue. There is also Villanelle herself.

Villanelle likes herself. She’s beautiful, brilliant, extremely witty; she used to be the most talented professional assassin in Western Europe. But she is missing things inside of herself that other people have, that other people take for granted everyone has. Some of these she has learned by rote, or observation, or long practice; some of these she disdains and deliberately eschews.

Anna was always trying to fix her. Villanelle does not want to be fixed, she is fine the way she is, but it entertained her to watch Anna try—try everything, comfort food and quality time and patient tutoring and endless forgiveness and sex, so much sex—until Anna’s constant failures, and constant low-key frustration with Villanelle, became boring.

And, if Villanelle’s being honest, it kind of started to hurt her feelings, too. She was _special_ , dammit, and she thought Anna recognized that. She thought Anna _saw_ how special she was, thought Anna was putting her on a pedestal to be cherished and admired (and stroked and kissed and…). But Anna didn’t see her as a treasure. Anna saw her as something unfinished, unformed, a lump of clay she could sculpt into a perfect little Oksana statuette.

Well. That’s not how Eve looks at her at all.

Eve _likes_ her. Eve laughs when Villanelle is being Villanelle. Eve doesn’t expect things from her that Villanelle can’t give, and she doesn’t get upset when Villanelle fails to deliver on something she never promised in the first place.

But she doesn’t put up with shit from Villanelle, either. She pushes back, defends herself, calls Villanelle out when she crosses a line. It should be annoying. It should be infuriating. It’s actually sexy as hell.

Nobody has ever treated Villanelle this way before, like—like an equal. It’s extremely possible that nobody will ever treat her this way again. She’s getting used to it. She doesn’t want it to stop.

Hence the mission.

* * *

Villanelle hears the door behind her slide open and closed, hears Eve step out onto the balcony behind her. Eve could push her over this railing right now, Villanelle thinks, 14 stories down to the street. The thought makes her tingle a little.

“Hey, you,” Eve says, and instead of a hard shove to the shoulder blades, it’s her arms slipping around Villanelle’s waist. Also quite exciting.

“Hello.”

“What are you thinking about?”

Villanelle turns, looks her in the face. Eve doesn’t seem to be teasing. It seems like a genuine question. Villanelle decides to try a genuine answer. For the sake of the mission.

“Anna,” she says with a small shrug.

A shadow crosses Eve’s face. “Oh,” she says, and Villanelle wonders for a second if honesty was a mistake. Her brows knit together. “Are you okay?”

That’s… not what Villanelle was expecting at all. It’s not jealousy, it’s not indifference, it’s not a barrage of more questions. It throws her for a second.

“Yeah,” she says lightly, not sure if she’s being honest anymore. “Just… you know. Memories.”

Eve nods solemnly. “I get that.” She nuzzles into Villanelle’s chest, tucking her head under Villanelle’s chin. Villanelle, still slightly baffled, brings her arms up around Eve anyway.

They stand there, holding each other. “Can I ask a question?” Eve says after a minute.

“Sure,” says Villanelle.

There’s a long pause. “How old were you, when you and Anna started…”

Villanelle has to think for a minute, do the math. “I was 15,” she says. “Just turned 15.”

She can feel Eve’s jaw clench against her collarbone, feel Eve’s arms tighten infinitesimally around her. “That’s young,” Eve says neutrally.

There’s a lot Villanelle wouldn’t defend Anna from, but she feels compelled to clarify this for Eve. “I seduced her, you know.”

Eve huffs a sharp breath. It sounds like disbelief, but Eve of all people has no reason to doubt Villanelle’s seduction abilities. She doesn’t say anything else, though, just holds Villanelle close.

It’s nice, if a little confusing. It bodes well for the mission.


	6. Don’t Get Me Started

#### Undisclosed Location

“So,” Konstantin asks as he tops up Carolyn’s drink, “how is our girl doing in her new job, eh?”

Carolyn raises her eyebrows and her glass at him, lips curled in amusement. “‘Our’ girl?”

He shrugs and sits back down. “My girl, then. Your… little project. Is she causing you trouble?”

“Why, not at all,” says Carolyn. “She’s working with Eve, as you suggested, and she’s been remarkably efficient.”

“Efficient!” Konstantin roars with laughter. “She gives me nothing but headaches for years, then goes to MI6 and becomes perfect little agent-angel. Of course she does! Of course.” He chuckles fondly. “That Polastri woman, maybe she is a witch.”

“Oh, I think her influence is far more mundane than that,” Carolyn demurs, taking a sip.

There’s a long pause as Konstantin stares at her.

“No,” he finally says. “No way. Villanelle, sure, but Eve? I thought—didn’t she have a husband?”

Carolyn opens her hands. “ _Had_ , apparently.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Were we ever that young?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Konstantin. I was born this age.”

* * *

#### Vauxhall Cross

“Oi, Oxford,” Jess calls across the office. “Dinner’s here.”

Hugo saunters over to Kenny’s desk, where the takeaway containers are spread out. “Any news from Prague?” he asks, utterly failing to sound disinterested.

Jess snorts, chopsticks laden with noodles. “Nothing but a big fat zero. Might as well have been natural causes. Eve and Herself will be back tomorrow.”

Hugo grunts, stirring his container of tikka masala.

They eat in silence for a few minutes.

“So,” Hugo asks suddenly. “Eve and Villanelle. Who do you think is on top?”

“O-kay,” Kenny says, picking up his food and walking out of the room.

“Disgusting, Hugo.” Jess rolls her eyes. “And inappropriate. _And_ heteronormative.”

Hugo waits a moment. “That’s not an answer,” he says. Jess glares at him silently. “It’s got to be Villanelle, right?”

Jess flicks a piece of carrot in Hugo’s direction, but misses by a metre. “First of all, you little wanker, if Villanelle heard you talking like that, she’d draw and quarter you.”

“Nah,” Hugo says, slurping his drink. “It’s not Eve’s birthday for a while yet.”

“And _second_ of all…” This time a pea bounces off Hugo’s obnoxiously sculpted cheekbone. “You know nothing about women. It’s obviously Eve.”

“Eve!” Hugo looks genuinely shocked. “On Villanelle?”

Jess looks him square in the face. “I’ve had a foot rub off Eve. More than once.”

“And?”

“That woman tops. End of.”

* * *

#### St. Thibault’s School

Niko’s been buying his lunch in the canteen all week. Not that Gemma pays attention to that sort of thing. It’s just that he usually brings something from home, and heats it up in the teacher’s lounge, and that’s three to five minutes they can chat by the microwave.

“H-hey.”

“Hey, Gemma.”

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

Niko manages a wan smile. Gemma’s heart aches for him. “Please.”

She takes a moment getting settled, then clears her throat softly. “I, ah, I noticed you’ve been… I mean, just… this week you… ugh.” She waves her hands a bit. “Can I start over?”

“Of course,” Niko nods.

She takes a deep breath. “Are you okay?”

“You know,” he says after a second, “the worst part is that I am.”

Gemma cocks her head.

“I left Eve,” he says, not quite meeting her eyes. “The other night. I’m staying in a mate’s spare room. And as awful as I feel, I’m also… I’m okay. It was, it is,” he sighs a long, long sigh, “the right thing to do.”

Tentatively, Gemma reaches across the table and touches his hand. “I think that was a very brave choice for you to make.”

Niko squeezes her hand. It’s warm and solid.

“Can I ask you… kind of a random question, Gemma?”

She blinks a couple of times and smiles. “Sure.”

“How do you feel about true crime?”

Gemma shudders. “Not for me, thanks. I like my murder mysteries good and made up.”

Niko smiles and leans back in his seat. “Yeah,” he says. “Same here.”


	7. Home

Eve comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe, and sees what Villanelle has queued up on the hotel room TV. “ _Titanic_? Are you serious?”

“There is nothing wrong with _Titanic_ , Eve,” says Villanelle patiently as she tips the room service guy. “It is a classic.”

“It’s overrated, is what it is.”

“So is this 2013 Château des Eaux Claires, but we are going to drink it anyway.” That gets her a look from the room service guy, but the look he gets in return sends him scurrying out of the suite. Villanelle closes the door behind him, a satisfied smile on her face.

“I ordered wine and snacks.” Villanelle’s idea of “snacks” is an elaborate charcuterie board, sprawling with sliced meats, cheeses, and various pickled vegetables. Eve’s mouth waters at the sight of it.

She walks up to Villanelle and kisses the corner of her jaw, right under her ear. Villanelle’s shiver turns into a gasp when Eve sucks on her earlobe for a second, and her hips tilt helplessly into Eve’s.

Eve laughs low in her throat, nipping at the side of Villanelle’s neck with her teeth, thrilling to every sound that escapes her, every whimper, every groan; every sharp breath in and long, shuddering breath out. Villanelle simply melts into her touch. Eve has never felt more powerful.

She takes Villanelle by the hands and starts walking backwards, walking her to the bed. Villanelle licks her lips and lets herself be pulled.

When Eve feels the end of the bed against the back of her legs, she sits down, leans back slightly, lets her robe fall open. Villanelle’s eyes slide down shamelessly. Eve opens the robe, and it slides down her arms, and then she’s nude in front of Villanelle—who’s still fully clothed.

It reminds Eve of the first time they met.

Only this time Villanelle isn’t keeping a chaste distance. This time she’s sinking to her knees reverently in front of Eve, kissing Eve’s lips, her collarbone, her breasts. Eve laces her hands into Villanelle’s hair and guides her lower, lower, until her face is level with Eve’s lap.

“Hmm,” Villanelle says, “I wonder what you want, Eve?” She’s trying to sound light and flirty, but her voice is unsteady with desire. Eve can feel Villanelle’s breath against her pubic hair. She wants more, so much more.

Villanelle lets out an approving little “ooh!” as Eve’s grip tightens on her hair, as Eve’s legs open for her, as Eve guides her exactly where she wants her.

* * *

Despite Villanelle’s dire opinion, the wine is perfectly acceptable. They demolish the charcuterie board, and Eve decides she can tolerate _Titanic_ if she has a slightly tipsy Villanelle tangled up with her.

Eve thought she knew a lot about Villanelle: brilliant, exceptional, violent, hedonistic, impulsive, irreverent. And she supposes she knew, in the abstract, that Villanelle is a physical person, that she enjoys the pleasures of touch as freely as food, or fine fashion, or murder.

Villanelle being a cuddler, though—that came out of nowhere.

But Eve’s not complaining. She might later—her back will almost certainly protest the way she’s half-sitting, half-leaning against the headboard—but for now, the warmth and solid weight of Villanelle against her is headier and more satisfying than any Château des Whatevers.

Villanelle wriggles happily in Eve’s arms. “This is my favourite part,” she whispers. On screen, hapless passengers fall off the stern of the ship and hit the massive propellers on their way down to the ocean. Villanelle giggles. Eve rolls her eyes fondly and kisses her on top of the head.

“I saw this movie on a date,” Eve recalls, as Billy Zane runs down a corridor to—she’s not actually sure where, she stopped paying attention a while ago.

Villanelle cranes her neck to meet Eve’s eyes. “You’re watching it on a date right now,” she says, an edge in her voice.

“Yes I am,” says Eve, kissing her forehead. “And this is a much better time, believe me. I don’t even remember that guy’s name. I do remember he cried at the end… and I didn’t. That was a little awkward.”

“Does it count if I cry when the old lady throws the diamond into the sea?” Villanelle asks. “Because that is true tragedy.”

“Ugh,” Eve says, “I know! The size of that thing! What was she thinking?”

“‘Oh, Leo, sorry you drowned. Have a necklace!’”

Eve puts on a cartoon old-lady voice. “‘Screw you, grandkids! Your inheritance belongs to the ocean!’” Villanelle laughs so hard, and so suddenly, that she snorts through her nose.

Eve’s heart—it doesn’t _melt_ , exactly, but it does feel like it’s changing state somehow, like silver transmuted by an alchemist into gold.

She thinks of saying something—even something stupid, like “I love you”—but why ruin the moment?

* * *

The flight home from Prague isn’t long. Villanelle spends most of it, again, asleep on Eve’s shoulder. Not for the first time, Eve envies her ability to drop off to sleep pretty much anywhere, pretty much immediately—including Eve’s shoulder, which happens to be Eve’s favourite place for Villanelle to nap.

The debrief doesn’t take long, either. Carolyn reviews their notes and the photos they took, agrees this isn’t an MI6 matter, and tells them to take the rest of the day off. “I’ve got something else for you, but we’ll start fresh on that first thing tomorrow.”

After that, Eve and Jess are the last two left in the conference room. Jess lifts an eyebrow. “So how’s traveling with Her Ladyship been?”

Eve freezes, but only for a second. “Oh, you know. It’s Villanelle. She can add a little drama to anything, even a boring work trip. We went to some _great_ restaurants.” She stops. Is that too much detail? Too little? Jess is almost as hard to read as Carolyn sometimes.

Jess just hums thoughtfully. “Well, you haven’t killed each other yet, so that’s me out of the office pool.”

“Oh, for—you’re not serious, there’s not a _pool_.”

Jess just waggles her eyebrows. “By the way—and you don’t want me to tell you why—you should try to use the words ‘top’ and ‘bottom’ around Hugo as much as possible. Watch him—” Her hands fly up at the side of her face, mimicking an explosion, “burst a blood vessel.”

“Okay,” Eve says slowly, like she’s committing the instructions to memory. “Drive Hugo crazy by saying ‘top’ and ‘bottom’ a lot. I can do that. And you’re right, I don’t want to know why. I’m sure the little pervert deserves it.”

“He does in spades.”

* * *

There are no lights on when Eve gets home.

Niko always used to leave a lamp on, or the porch light, when Eve was coming home late. “So you don’t crack a shin in the dark,” he’d say.

She unlocks the door in the dark. Kicks her shoes off in the dark. Finds the light switch from pure muscle memory, in the dark. Then she stands in the front hall and takes deep, deep breaths until the urge to cry passes.

It does. She leaves her luggage in the hall, flicks the light back off, and walks upstairs, in the dark.

A few minutes later, she’s lying on her side of the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to think about nothing, and she hears her phone buzz twice.

 _If it’s Niko,_ she thinks, _I’m not going to answer until the morning._

It’s not Niko. It’s Villanelle.

`It’s no fun going to bed without you`, the message says.

Eve bites her lip. It only takes her a moment to respond.

`No fun at all. Wish you were here.`

Her phone buzzes in her hands almost immediately.

`No, I wish you were here. My bed is bigger.`

Eve feels her face flush with heat. She hasn’t seen Villanelle’s new flat, the one MI6 set her up with. She’s not surprised it has a big bed.

Before she can think of a flirty response, her phone buzzes again.

`Come over.`

This is Eve’s life now. She’s a 48-year-old secret agent, answering booty calls from her girlfriend at one o’clock in the morning.

She can live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and kudos-ing and commenting (especially commenting 💋) on this ridiculous tour through my lesbian lack of impulse control.
> 
> If you want to be notified if/when I come back to this universe, make sure to subscribe to the [whole series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1345879), not just this story—which has been so much fun to write and share with you. Thanks again. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ["High Enough"](https://youtube.com/watch?v=kgWkY4AUd1Y) by K. Flay.


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